The Touch Of Steel
by letyoursoultakeflight
Summary: A story for Soka from 'Path of Honor' by Diana Pharoah Francis. Soka contemplates his torture at Aare's hands and launches himself ferociously into combat training to pursue his revenge.


Soka looked over at Metyein, shooting the man a cocky grin as he watched him approach. The Lord Marshal's son gave him a smirk in return and gestured for him to get to his feet. "Get that cloak off, lest you want to trip. And draw your sword."

Soka lifted an eyebrow in amusement, the usual hard lines of his lips giving way to another grin. "I had not realised your tastes had taken such a turn, brother. _My_ sword's for the _ladies_, not you." Metyein made a rude hand gesture before turning to shout something to a man behind him.

He knew he worried over him, speculated over what Aare had put him through, probably wondered slightly at his sanity. And he couldn't blame him. Not when he had countless poisons secreted over his person. Not when he had stepped up his training in swordplay to such a heightened level, never disguising the fanatical enthusiasm that he pursued his opponent with. If Aare got hold of him again he was not going to sell his life cheaply.

He wouldn't trade it all if he could help it. No, if he played his cards right, it would be _Aare_ who would suffer the next time they met, it would be _him_ that would feel the sharp curve of a blade as it bit into the flesh of his eye and took half his sight.

And Soka would not be so kind as to give the man drugs to dull the pain.

Not that pain killers seemed all that kind when their smells continued to bring back nightmares, continued to make him pale, make him retch until all he could smell was the sourness of his empty stomach as it stung his nose. He brought his hand to the side of his face and lightly touched where his eye had once shone in brilliant topaz blue. Memories and nightmares surfaced immediately and he cursed viciously, unable to restrain the loathing and fear that rose within him. It was the fear he hated the most. Fear was poison. Destructive and contagious. And always lurking.

_Awake. Tied and drugged. Aare's cultured voice cold and filled with contempt, his healer turned torturer leaning over him, his breath reeking of sausage and ale. The gleaming curve of the blade. Cold fingers. Even colder steel. His own body shaking, straining to escape the bonds that held him as they bit into his skin, and the unforgiving hands that demanded so much. The unbearable tension assaulting his eye, the quiet _plop_ when it gave way. Sobbing. His nine year old voice crying out in anguish, _give it back!_ The smell of burning flesh, the tugging of a blade and the different but just as terrible tugging of a needle. _

A shiver raced involuntarily up his spine and he drew a sharp breath as his fingers continued their all too familiar exploration, lingering in grave contemplation over the azure patch of decorated silk hiding the terrible scars Aare's malice had left.

Aare had made sure the man's work would be permanent, had brought something to rub over his butchered flesh to leave permanent scars, to make sure the map of his father's lands remained there, engraved into his tortured flesh as a permanent reminder and threat to both he and his father.

And the Verit hadn't stopped there.

Aare had only recently tried to take Metyien prisoner, wanting to use him against his father to secure himself greater power than what he now had as Regent, but had ended up with him instead. And after allowing the torn wounds in his shoulder and stomach to heal, had used him in Metyien's stead. Taunting and mocking, threatening him with knives, lewd promises and clipped words, only letting him go when he had agreed to spy on the Lord Marshal through his son.

But he _had_ left him whole this time. Not that he felt it.

Soka gave a humourless laugh as he swung his sword through a few practice moves that Metyein had taught him. The Verit was a _skraa _-for-brains fool for thinking Soka would act as his spy. Metyein was the brother of his heart, the only man he would willingly lay down his life for, the only man he'd give _more_ than his life to protect. He was his only friend in a Court of people who treated him as nothing better than a servant despite his ancient lineage and status as the heir to Bro-heyek. They were kindred spirits, both having known pain and malice. Though as much as Soka loved the man, he knew he had suffered not nearly as much as he had, could not know how terribly lonely life could be. How _cruel_ it could be. _His_ father cared for him, hadn't left his indifference and betrayal etched oh his face in cold hard lines, maps of hate and agony that Aare's ministrations had only magnified.

Metyein's hand waving exaggeratedly in front of his face brought him back into the present. He realised he must have been standing there, staring stupidly at nothing. He tried for one of his flashing grins, pulling his handsome face into some semblance of weightless humour.

"Watch yourself, brother, the women won't like it if you don't have two hands to give them a good time."

Metyein choked on a laugh. "Never fear, my second, even one-handed they'd still come to my bed before they'd come to yours."

Soka rolled his remaining eye and swatted at him with the flat of his sword, making his friend jump back out of reach and raise his own steel in readiness for what was to come.

He saw the brittleness to the smile now sliding from Metyein's lips and knew his face had switched into the intense mask that so often dominated his features now, knew the man before him was seeing what Aare had made of him, not the swaggering buck he had still been before his latest torment in the cells under the Verit's manor.

He didn't try for humour this time, instead Soka launched himself into the day's training, wildly pushing at his boundaries of endurance, chasing after everything he needed and craved. Vengeance. And by the Demonlord's warty purple horn he'd have it.


End file.
